Graynelore (13 page)

The underground space was a small vaulted chamber with a solid, uneven floor of natural rock. I could barely stand my full height within it. Its walls were cut stone but, for the most, if they were well laid they were poorly dressed and blackened with the neglect of an age. This was the very bottom of the tower of Carraw Peel. These were its foundations. A broken man, or a forgotten Pledge, might be left in the darkness to die here (there was old evidence shifting under my feet). Oddly enough, for the first time since entering the house, I could not smell the lingering stench. Instead there was the natural foul dankness that comes with stale air, long absence, and abandonment. This space was never meant for the eyes of visiting dignitaries or house guests. There was no need for the Old-man to show off his wealth here.

Yet I had been brought here for a purpose…

I remembered again the Beggar Bard of my distant childhood, explaining how the first Headman of the Wishards had, unwittingly, built his tower-house upon The Eye Stone. Was it only a babbie’s story, a whimsy meant for gullible ears, or a real part of the truth? We had heard the tale retold often enough. It had become so. I had offered the Old-man my talisman because of it. How strange it was that only now I should consider my own belief; to chance all upon a fancy. And if this Eye Stone was such a powerful device, why was it so neglected, kept a secret, hidden away in the darkness? This place was more an abandoned tomb than an honoured shrine. I could see no sense in it, nor any advantage to the grayne.

The only light in the chamber came through the open trapdoor. There were three figures vaguely outlined against its weak display. The light ringed their heads, caught in their hair. They were all Councillors; the Old-man was not among them, nor was the guard.

‘You will give it up now, your…gift.’ Stiff Brittle, seemed to have to search for his last word. It was not a question.

‘For the test?’ I tried to sound as if I believed I was still there to make an offering to my Graynelord. Not walking into a trap I did not understand.

‘Ah yes, the test,’ said Stiff Brittle. Then he repeated his statement. ‘You will give it up.’ He held out his hand in the gloom.

I took the talisman from around my neck and gave it to him. (As yet, I had no good reason not to.) How easily something so very important was given away then. There was a sharp intake of breath.

‘Is it real?’ asked one of the Council.

‘We shall see,’ answered Stiff Brittle.

He grasped the fragment of The Eye Stone, his hands shaking violently, though whether through excitement or simple old age I could not tell. He appeared to dither, in a way that suggested he might not know exactly what it was he was supposed to do with it. Was this a ceremony so little performed? He turned to face the grimy wall, towards the spot where, I assumed, he would find the keystone of the house – The Eye Stone.

It was then murder was committed.

Mine.

I was poisoned after all. My vitals the culprit, I had no doubt. If I am uncertain, even yet, who it was delivered the fatal dose to my cup. I felt its lethal strength begin to course through my blood. My head screamed with the pain of it and I fell down, at once, dead (the intention, if not – thankfully – the final outcome). It might have been a physical blow. It was certainly enough to kill any ordinary man. That it did not kill me, I cannot fully explain, give only my belief. Do you remember my words at our first meeting, my friend?

I am
not
an ordinary man.

Though I must add, at once, I am not an immortal. All creatures die eventually, each to their own circumstance. Only now it seemed some men were less easily dispatched than others.

When Rogrig, the man, was killed, did that small part of him which is fey survive? Was a faerie trait enough to make a difference? For upon Graynelore, surely every man was a mixed breed. An empty lamp, though its wick is still damp with oil, will not hold a light. Still, I could not guess any better, nor did I need to – only thank the fortunes for it and accept the gift of life gladly.

I was dead, then – dead to the world, at any rate – and lying in that dark hole. The three members of the Council were standing over me. They were speaking privately among themselves. If I could not easily see them or set them apart, I could hear them. I guessed the first voice belonged to Stiff Brittle. It was a heated debate.

‘Why do you think it is that we dwelt so long and hard upon ancient maps, and the words of long dead men?’ he asked.

‘You do not believe it, then?’ returned a second voice, harshly.

‘Belief? Is that it? Ha! You are asking the wrong question of the wrong man.’ Stiff Brittle was suddenly scornful. ‘The Eye Stone – so-called – is the very foundation stone of this tower. I know that perfectly well. It is solid enough. I neither need to believe in a relic or disbelieve. Possession is everything. And the wall is a wall just the same.’

‘Then, The Eye Stone is not real?’

‘Real? What, exactly, is real?’ asked Stiff Brittle. ‘Take away The Eye Stone from where it now resides and tell me, what would happen?’

‘The walls would break,’ answered the third member of the Council, his voice both languid and supplicatory in its tone. ‘Carraw Peel would fall into a ruin, of course.’

‘Of course. And is that magic then; is that belief? No, it is a fact. It is simply the truth. And that is your reality.’ Stiff Brittle sighed. ‘Tell me, my Lords, who is it that most benefits from the wealth of this grayne?’ His words were pointed.

‘Truly? In the continued absence of a Graynelord, then…this Council…’

‘Indeed.’

‘But…The Graynelord
is
dead.’

‘I know he is dead. At this very moment his rancid rotting corpse sits in the Great Hall above us. If it were not for the intervention of the Elfwych, the Old-man’s brother might already be sitting in his place. Our influence usurped. Is that not so?’

As Stiff Brittle spoke these words I felt myself give an involuntary start. If I had not been lying dead at the Council’s feet and in the dark I would have given myself away. What did they mean by it? The debate continued:

‘Norda Elfwych is a bloody throwback! She is a true fey wych. Magic…sorcery is an evil, not tolerated here. It is the common man’s law. We have more than encouraged it ourselves.’

‘Can you really be this stupid, my Lord?’ Stiff Brittle’s retort was as dry as ice.

‘Throwbacks are slaughtered – put into the fire. Aye and their close kin are slaughtered with them – their companions too, if the angry mob has a mind.’

‘Only if they are caught,’ said, Stiff Brittle.

‘This is a very dangerous game we are playing. That is all I am saying. A very dangerous game, indeed—’

‘Ah, yes, well. We are all throwbacks to one degree or another, are we not? It is only a matter of perception, point of view. If a Headman is looking at you and he sees you as a threat…well then, he kills you. If, on the other hand, you are useful to him, or you are a member of his own close kin…’ Stiff Brittle left the implication hanging. ‘Ha! What does a man care for pedigree when it is his power at stake? The law, right or wrong, guilt or innocence, politics and politicians – it is all of it, matter-less.’

‘But there is no denying the facts.’

‘Facts! Ha! There are so few facts. One man’s fact is only another man’s bare-faced lie. Like I said, it is not fact we are dealing with here, it is simply a point of view.’

‘And points of view get people killed.’

The Council’s heated discussion had descended into political debate and rhetoric. It seemed, even now, in this moment of extreme danger, they could not resist the temptation to embroil. Were these old men only fools after all? If they had simply abandoned my body to the hole and shut me in, there would have been a sudden end to my tale. Their continued distraction was to my advantage. It allowed me the time to recover sufficiently to act for my life.

‘But by rights, the Old-man’s brother is his natural successor; as it is written upon the Stone.’

‘Listen, my friends. This Council is weak. We are only advisers, simple merchants, and scholars. We count coins and we wring meanings out of feeble words cut upon ancient stone. We play out ancient ceremonies for the eyes of gullible men. We dress up and we act the part. We are politicians, not fighting-men. We are powerless to keep control of the Graynelore without the strength of The Graynelord. We cannot go to war.’

‘Oh please! Save the pitiful grovelling for someone who cares!’ Stiff Brittle’s voice began to rise above those of his fellows. ‘However, I do have to agree with you – there is many a grayne that would take advantage of this death. Indeed there are many Headmen whose legal claim to Lordship of the Graynelore comes before our own.’

‘Ah! But we have The Eye Stone. Is that not the true Mark of The Graynelord? Is not possession the rule?’

‘Oh indeed it is a magnificent symbol, but on its own it can never be enough. Not without the man. So, enough of this futile discussion! We are all of us a party to this act. What is done is done. Has anyone actually been listening?’

The Council seemed to falter there, as if perplexed by Stiff Brittle’s words. He continued:

‘All right, let us say I agree with you both, in principle. And, what is written upon The Eye Stone is so.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then obviously, all we have to do to remain on the right side of the debate is to…
update
the stone, a little.’

‘But that is impossible.’

‘Is it, my Lords? Forgive me if I were to disagree with you. Other than us; who else has actually seen it?’

‘But every house upon Graynelore knows the story of The Eye Stone…and what is written here upon it.’

‘Do they? Listen, I am not talking about old men’s stories. I mean the original. Have any of them actually
seen
the original Eye Stone, have they read it for themselves?’

‘No. Of course not! It is more a question of faith, than of…well, of fact.’

‘Exactly! We get there in the end. So, let us take a leap of faith of our own, and let me suggest to you that what we have here has, over time, required a certain judicial…embellishment.’

‘You mean The Eye Stone has been faked?’

‘I would prefer to call it…clarified.’

‘But why? Where is the sense in it?’

‘Let us consider a moment…Your family, your grayne, are the rulers of the known world. Why? Because The Eye Stone says they are. Your close kin sit at the very top of the apple tree, among its fruits, while everyone else sits at the very bottom and goes hungry. Why? Because The Eye Stone says they do. You have everything your own way, because The Eye Stone lets you. And nobody, but nobody questions The Eye Stone. What is more, nobody asks for the proof of it, which is very convenient. Who could blame a grayne for wanting to further their advantage?

‘Looking like a Graynelord, acting like a Graynelord, giving orders like a Graynelord…makes you a Graynelord. And who needs paltry trinkets!’

There was the sound of a quick movement. Suddenly, I felt exactly as if I had been stung upon the head by a thrown stone. I might have cried out for it, given myself away to that company, if my voice had been mine. As it was, I was yet mute. My body was still quite inert. There was no life in it to react to the pain. I realized Stiff Brittle had thrown my talisman back at me, as if it was without value. How curious this all was.

It seemed he had more to say. ‘And the more ancient your rules, the more they are steeped in tradition, passed down through faceless generations; the more deeply rooted and twisted you can make them, then the more difficult it is for common men to unravel.

‘Think of it like this: the more often the people are told,
this
is the way things are, the easier it is for them to believe it: especially when they are not being offered any alternative.’

‘Is the world this sad? Is this our best?’

‘Ah, now there is a thing. I fear it was ever so,’ said Stiff Brittle. ‘Indeed, the manner of the rule does not matter, not really. The world works the way it works just the same. A man must be a leader. Others must follow.’

I heard the distinct sound of a hammer blow. Iron upon breaking stone. The rattle of stone fragments hitting the floor. The shocked squeal of men convinced that the earth was about to fall in upon them. Again the hammer fell. Then silence.

‘There, you see?’ said Stiff Brittle. ‘How very easily history is rewritten.’

It suddenly occurred to me; I had been killed not because I had been lying to them, but because they had been lying to me. Why had The Eye Stone not revealed my talisman to be a pitiful Beggar Bard’s fake? Because…because
their
Eye Stone was the imposter?

I began to feel life returning to my stricken corpse. It was fortunate for me that they had killed me less than dead. I speak of it now as if my recovery was a common thing, and so easily achieved. It was neither. I came to myself slowly, and very painfully; it was an unusual agony – my body still filled with a dreadful poison, not the hurt expected of a death wound. I had the wit about me to bite my tongue against it.

I had to think quickly; what was to be done, now?

That the Council thought me dead was to my advantage. That they were politicians and not fighting-men was to my advantage again. Still, a caution: I had been dead once and survived; this Council might be old and decrepit, it still had a bite that could kill. I did not expect to survive again. I let the conspiracy continue its wordy debate…The element of surprise was mine.

I had found my feet, was moving before I was discovered. I took to the ladder not to the sword. Not through any sense of trepidation: I would have killed those men without hesitation. Only the chamber was too dim to find a clear mark, too small to make a full-bodied blow with my sword. I would have been swinging senselessly against stone walls, and in the dark.

Escape was the better way.

Though there was blood spilled, and damage done. To gain the ladder I was forced through that huddle of old men. I must have caught one. Ancient bones are fragile; they break as easily as a winter’s brittle ice.

I had cleared the trapdoor and lifted the ladder before their cries went up. No doubt, astonishment and their own fear cut their tongues – as I would have cut their throats – rooting them to the spot. When the first of their voices finally sounded the trapdoor was already closed upon them, and their cries went unheard.

My stone talisman was held tightly in my closed fist. I had, unwittingly, grasped it, as I pulled myself up off the floor of the chamber.